


Off Together

by thinlizzy2



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23892154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/pseuds/thinlizzy2
Summary: Five scenes from the first year of Crowley and Aziraphale's retirement to their South Downs Cottage.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 81
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [planetundersiege](https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetundersiege/gifts).



> Odd-numbered chapters are from Crowley's POV. Even-numbered chapters are from Aziraphale's.

The estate agents play it all wrong.

They assume that Aziraphale is the one looking to move, a staid older man heading into retirement and hoping to drag his toy-boy lover away from his wild London lifestyle. They have no way of guessing that it's Crowley who is most keen on the country life; after centuries of aching for Aziraphale's company he's unashamedly greedy for long and luxurious stretches of the angel's undivided attention now. While Aziraphale can theoretically appreciate the idea of a rural relocation, he's preoccupied with his books and where to house them if not in his shop. The mixed-up agents talk about rising property values like that's a thing that matters to either one of them, extoll the tiny coziness of the various cottages for sale to Aziraphale and discreetly whisper to Crowley about how the little villages aren't really as isolated as they seem. As a result, they miss the mark every time.

So Crowley takes matters into his own hands. 

It takes him several weeks of independent searching to find the perfect place. In that time, Aziraphale seems to more or less give up on the idea of buying a place together; he simply moves more of his things into Crowley's flat and starts making lists of the things he can do to make the rooms 'nice'. But he gamely agrees to see one more house, if Crowley really wants to. They climb into the Bentley and drive towards the shore.

They alternate choosing the music, which amounts to a rather odd medley. Aziraphale hasn't got past his old habit of referring to every style of music that he dislikes as bebop, so Crowley counters by claiming that every song Aziraphale likes is some form of opera. It falls apart a bit when Aziraphale chooses to indulge his ridiculous taste for 90s britpop, but they laugh about it together so it doesn't really matter.

England rolls past them as they drive. Slowly at first, with the creep of London traffic, and then more speedily as they get outside the city. It still seems astonishing to Crowley that a few short months ago there was every chance that all of this was about to flame out of existence. And his Bentley, which was now carrying them smoothly towards their destination, was a hunk of burning trash.

Those same few short months ago, he had believed Aziraphale was dead and gone, lost to him forever before Crowley could even work up the nerve to tell him how he felt about him. The idea is horrifying, even now. He takes one hand off the wheel in pursuit in of Aziraphale's, a now-familiar act of seeking out reassurance that his angel is alive and well and that he can touch him whenever he likes. 

Aziraphale lifts that hand to his lips for a sweet kiss and Crowley feels his heart turn over. He can sense Aziraphale's smile without even looking over.

They stop for lunch when they're nearly there. Decades ago it would have been fish and chips, but today even little seaside stands have lobster rolls. Aziraphale drizzles lemon butter over the shellfish, smiling happily at Crowley over their plates. Crowley sees how the sea air puts colour into Aziraphale's cheeks and how the breezes off the ocean ruffle his hair far too adorably. He hopes so much that he's found their home.

The view for the rest of the drive is nothing short of lovely. Small stone walls surround little homes framed by vegetable gardens. Many of the trees are still in flower and chalky white cliffs beckon them forward. The occasional twists in the road offer tantalising glimpses of an ocean that easily could be believed to be endless. This is a small island when viewed just in terms of the amount of the planet's surface that it covers, but its variety feels infinite. Both Crowley and Aziraphale have travelled extensively, but nowhere has even felt exactly like home in the same way that Britain does. If Aziraphale had wanted to live in Paris with its easy access to unparalleled crepes or in the bustle of Tokyo or even in Midwestern American suburbia, Crowley would have followed him there without a moment's hesitation. But the fact that Aziraphale also prefers England to anywhere else they could be brings a particular sweetness to the step forward they're taking together.

The little cottage appears indistinguishable from any of the countless others that they've seen at first. Crowley points out the large garden where he can grow plants, the cliff overlooking the water, the wine cellar in the basement. Aziraphale smiles and nods, but Crowley can see concern for his precious treasures clouding his enjoyment of the natural beauty. No worries - he's saved the best for last.

At the end of a corridor, a former nursery room has been expanded, as if by either magic or the work of very talented contractors. Huge bookshelves of the finest wood, built into the walls, rise from floor to ceiling. The room is designed to be packed with books; there's just enough empty space for a cozy chair or two and a little lamp by which to read.

"I think there's enough space for your whole collection." Crowley can hear the naked hope in his own voice; he wants so much for Aziraphale to love it here. "And if there's not, or if you get more, we can always expand it." He waves a hand and the room seems to swell, as if inhaling deeply. A second wave makes it exhale itself back into place.

Aziraphale's eyes are as wide as dinner plates. " _Oh_ ", he breathes. "Oh, my dear. It's beautiful." And Crowley's throat is choked with wanting.

"Live here with me, angel?" He fights the urge to go down on one knee; the question feels that important. "Please?"

Aziraphale strokes his cheek with one soft hand. "Of course I will. Nothing would make me happier."

Crowley kisses him then, just because he can. It's odd, considering that he's capable of shattering the laws of physics just by snapping his fingers, but it's the simple fact that he's now allowed to casually lean forward and kiss Aziraphale whenever he likes that feels like the true miracle.

He's beginning to work on the buttons on Aziraphale's waistcoat when the angel laughs and pushes him gently away. "Crowley, really." A small smile is tugging at his lips.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Seriously? We get a place of our own and immediately bed death sets in? I figured it would take at least a couple of months."

Aziraphale blushes even as he laughs. "That's not it. It's just... we don't own this place yet, do we?"

Crowley can hardly see how that matters, but he knows there's no point in arguing with Aziraphale's particular sense of what's proper. So he just smirks instead. "I own a _car_. One that's parked conveniently just outside." He arches an eyebrow in invitation.

Aziraphale gleams at him in a way that reminds Crowley that his angel is no innocent little cherub. "Well then. What are we just standing around here for?"

The angel leads the way back to the Bentley, and Crowley, with a lascivious leer at his arse, is only too happy to follow.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale doesn't feel any particular urge to sleep.

He knows Crowley wishes that he did, and so he's tried it. But all he does is lay there, eyes shut, feeling like the whole exercise is a bit ridiculous. He supposes he could miracle himself to sleep if he really wanted to, but he doesn't see the point. And the whole thing feels a bit fraught with unknowns. Would the miracle wear off the moment he lost consciousness? Would he have to miracle himself _awake_ again afterwards, and how could he do that from a sleeping state? He doesn't know, and so he's choosing to just avoid the matter altogether.

"We've got this big bed!" Crowley persists. "Top-of-the-line goose down, which you insisted on, even though I have no idea how that doesn't feel slightly cannibalistic to you. Come on; just close your eyes and see if you drift off."

He doesn't object to _Crowley_ sleeping. He'd rather it weren't for decades at a time, the way he's done it in the past. But if Crowley chooses to slumber for eight hours a day or so, Aziraphale can read or walk in the sumptuous nature surrounding their home or go watch the waves roll in on the darkened pebble beach. He can commune with the helpful little pollinators out in their garden or gaze at Crowley's beautiful face, relaxed in sleep, and marvel at how this gorgeous creature is somehow inexplicably _his_. There are plenty of things he can do to keep himself amused.

"It's supposed to be _decadent_ , angel", Crowley explains, when Aziraphale finally asks why it matters so much to him that Aziraphale sleeps. "It's _indulgent_. Your lover falls asleep in your arms, all limp and sweaty and deliciously sinned-up. And then you get to wake him up with kisses in the morning. Doesn't that sound nice?" He pouts, rather adorably. "I know it's not an angel thing, but neither is fucking demons. You do that, so why not try sleeping?"

Aziraphale makes a decent show of being affronted. "Begging your pardon, but I don't 'fuck demons.' I fuck _one_ demon. Singular. You, to be precise. I can assure you, I'm certainly not sneaking off for secret liasions with Beelzebub or Hastur."

"I should bloody well hope not!" Crowley snorts and grabs hold of Aziraphale's arse, pulliny him in for a rough kiss. "You're going to need to get working on banishing that particular image from my head, angel, right this minute."

Aziraphale laughs, but is only too happy to comply.

Sex with Crowley is an experience unlike any other Aziraphale has ever had, even in his extremely long and varied life. He's had human lovers. At the times, there didn't seem to be any reason not to. There have been humans who he's been close to and even a few that he had loved, in a sort of more intense version of the love he feels for all humanity. Their sex had always been fleeting but pleasant, rather akin to enjoying a three-course lunch with superlative company. The amusement of pursuit and being pursued, the tangles of bodies, the physical reactions of cleverly-designed nerve endings - it had all been delight similar to reading a predictable but well-crafted novel, perhaps a cozy little mystery or a tale of hard-earned triumph over great adversity. So in short, nothing at all to turn up one's nose at, and so Aziraphale hadn't.

But sex with Crowley is different.

His body reacts to Crowley in a way that it hasn't to any other lover. He _craves_ Crowley, in a way that he never experienced before with any other being or thing, not in sixty centuries on Earth or in all the time before. There are times when the thought of not having Crowley - his cock in his mouth, the smell of him in his nostrils, his long clever snake fingers moving deep inside him - feels like a worse torture than either angels or demons could have dreamed up. Aziraphale is no stranger to specific appetites; he has knowingly walked into corporeal danger for a plate of crêpes, after all. But this, Crowley licking searing lines up and down his thighs before sliding his perfect serpentine tongue _inside_ , this is more than hunger. This is an _addiction_ , plain and simple, and he'd stride unarmed into Hell without hesitation if that was what he needed to do to get his next fix.

He knows Crowley hates it when he thinks like this. The incident at the burning bookshop affected him deeply and the idea of Aziraphale in danger enrages him. So he largely keeps these thoughts to himself, though he suspects Crowley can sense them. His grip on Aziraphale is tight, verging on possessive, and when the angel comes he licks the evidence from his hand like every part of Aziraphale is unquestionably his. When Crowley finds his own release, the drops that fall on Aziraphale's chest are like a brand.

"Good?" Crowley asks later, when they're clinging to each other in the sweaty wreckage of the sheets on the bed that they share. And Aziraphale wants to laugh at the understatement.

Instead, he gives in to a particularly naughty bit of temptation. "Better than Hastur could ever dream of being."

Crowley's response is half growl and half groan. "You're going to pay for that, angel. As soon as I wake up." He cracks an eye open and peers up at Aziraphale. "I suppose you're going to just lie there and watch me, like a creepy weirdo then?"

"It's indulgent", Aziraphale informs him, a little bit proud of turning Crowley's own words against him like this. "You're like art. What could be more luxurious than to just look at something beautiful for hours on end?"

And for once, Crowley seems to have no words. He simply snuggles down into Aziraphale's chest, his breathing slowing as his muscles relax.

"Sleep", Aziraphale whispers to him. "And dream of whatever it is that makes you the happiest."

"Don't need to." The sound is just a hint of breath across Aziraphale's skin. "Got it right here."

Aziraphale sighs and wraps his arms more tightly around his sleeping demon. He watches Crowley's chest rise and fall as the faint lines on his brow smooth away and a small smile plays across his sleeping lips.

Aziraphale inhales deeply. This is decadent indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale makes friends, because of course he does.

The angel is irrepressibly likeable; Crowley himself was drawn to this from the very beginning. And there's a certain quality about him that suggests approachability. Even in a modern world where people distrust strangers and generally prefer screens, there's something about a beaming face beneath a mop of silver curls and on top of dusty three-piece suit that people just feel drawn to. And so Aziraphale soon begins a collection of friends as wide and varied as his library.

There are the transplanted London widows and divorcees that he meets feeding the gulls down by the water. The college-aged girls from the best local bakery who are charmed by the way that Aziraphale carries a notebook to jot down ideas on new treats to tempt his boyfriend with. There are staffers from the local library who are delighted to have a regular visitor who doesn't just want to jerk off to whatever they can stream on the free WiFi. And there are the humans that Aziraphale deliberately meets when he senses their inner turmoil and unhappiness and reaches out a much-needed helping hand. 

And somehow, Aziraphale assembles selections from this motley group into an unlikely book club that meets every Thursday evening in Crowley's living room.

It's... a lot.

Crowley doesn't _dislike_ humans, of course. He hasn't historically formed the kinds of individual bonds that Aziraphale has, possibly because so much of his time, by professional necessity, has been devoted to trying to find ways to draw out their baser natures. And in many of them, it took distressingly little work. But generally he finds them innovative and creative and there are products of their existence - liquor and music, fine automobiles and technology - that he genuinely adores. He has an admitted soft spot for children. And on the whole, he absolutely prefers humans, without question, to the company of demons or angels, Aziraphale excepted of course. So the people themselves aren't the issue.

Crowley just hates David.

He hates the fact that David always refers to his business as a _gastropub_. Like the word restaurant is beneath him or something. He hates the bottles of wine that David brings to their home, which are clearly designed to impress Aziraphale and are obnoxiously obvious choices. He hates his insincere smile whenever he sees Crowley, his rich plummy voice and his stupid tooth veneers.

And he hates the fact that every single time David sets eyes on Aziraphale, the air fills up with the stink of human lust.

Aziraphale can't smell it, Crowley knows. Angels are designed to sense love, not desire. But Crowley spent centuries tempting humans into thinking with their genitals, and he knows this scent well. And every time he gets a whiff of it from David, which means every fucking Thursday evening with no respite in sight, it makes him want to rear up like a cobra and strike.

It all comes to a head on an otherwise unremarkable rainy Thursday night. David lingers to help Aziraphale clean up. It's a wasted effort, as Aziraphale would be able to miracle all the dishes clean and furniture rearranged if the smug prick would just _leave_ , but the angel isn't going to volunteer that information and Crowley doubts that anything short of a forklift would get rid of David at this point anyway.

He slips in and out of the kitchen, ferrying cups and saucers into the sink and just reminding David that he's still fucking _there_. On one trip back to the sink, he finds David with his hand clamped onto Aziraphale's shoulder and so he pitches a heavy wooden bowl into the suds, splattering David's cashmere sweater with dirty dishwater. He doesn't bother to apologize before he storms back to the living room.

He doesn't think for a second that Aziraphale would ever cheat on him. He trusts his angel entirely. But the way this ridiculous being is putting his hands on Crowley's lover and acting like what they have doesn't even matter is infuriating. And Crowley is almost irresistibly tempted to curse him.

"He's a bit intense, isn't he?" David may think he's being subtle by pitching his voice low, but Crowley's sensitive snake hearing can pick him up with no trouble.

"I suppose he can be." Aziraphale's voice is suspiciously light.

"And a bit of a grouch. Would you say?" David is apparently going to persist.

"He can be that too." Aziraphale sounds oddly amused. "It's part of his charm."

David's laugh is astonishingly insincere. "If you like that type. I hope you don't mind me saying do, but I wouldn't have expected that you did."

There's a slight pause before Aziraphale makes an admission. "Most people don't understand Crowley and me at first."

David pounces on that opening like he's the one with snake-like tendancies. "Well we've all gone slumming from time to time. I find it usually doesn't last."

"Oh, I hope Crowley doesn't think of this as slumming!" Aziraphale's affronted tone is absolutely perfect and Crowley has to bite back a laugh.

David quickly tries to backpaddle. "Oh, I didn't mean-"

Aziraphale cuts him off. "I mean, I know he's gorgeous. And more than that, he's brilliant and generous and cultured. But I believe - I _know_ that he truly loves me. If you had any idea of the things that he's done for me... you'd be stunned. I'm extremely lucky."

Crowley creeps toward the doorway and tries to observe without being seen. There's a particular light in Aziraphale's eyes that Crowley can easily recognise. This is how Aziraphale used to look right before he successfully thwarted what Crowley had assumed was a perfectly-crafted temptation.

David is clearly wrong-footed, but he makes one more attempt. "I'd say that he's the lucky one."

"I try to make him feel that way", Aziraphale goes on cheerfully. "I make sure he knows he's the great love of my life. That I adore him and I'd never do anything to hurt him. And that I'd _never_ betray him, not in a million years. It's not much, but it's what I have to offer."

David suddenly remembers an early morning meeting.

Crowley holds the door for him as he leaves. He allows himself a bit of a smirk at the human's expense. "See you next week then?" He's pretty sure they won't.

Crowley pulls Aziraphale away from the dishes and miracles them clean with a flick of his hand. He wraps his arms around the angel. "He was hitting on you." He murmurs the words into Aziraphale's hair.

"Yes, dear. I know." He shoots Crowley a sly glance. "I suppose that makes you feel terribly threatened. A bit possessive, perhaps? Maybe you need to reassert your claim?" 

And Crowley is reminded once again that his angel is far wilier than he seems. "You little devil." They laugh together and Crowley tugs Aziraphale out of the kitchen, towards their bedroom. "Come on. Remind me again of how lucky I am."


	4. Chapter 4

Like many snakes, Crowley loves to swim.

He goes at least once a day, and more often when the weather is nice. And he doesn't just stick to the shallows. Aziraphale always watches in dismay as his lover heads out into deeper water than any sensible human would dare and plunges himself under the surface for far longer than anyone could survive if they actually had to breathe. He waits in the shallows feeling helpless and land-bound, stewing in his anxiety until Crowley reappears and makes his way back towards the shore.

Aziraphale isn't opposed to enjoying the ocean. It's one of the main attractions of their new home, after all. But he prefers to limit himself to a little paddle, trousers rolled up but dry from the calves upwards. He's not like Crowley, who takes to the sea with the same enthusiasm that the dolphins showed back when they decided once and for all to abandon this silly living-on-land business.

"Why does it bother you so much?" Crowley asks, once Aziraphale finally decides to voice his objections. "It's just a little swim. And it's beautiful out there; I'd love to show you."

The real reason sounds ridiculous, even in his own head. So he tries a less preposterous objection first. "What if something happens to you, and you discorporate? Hell isn't going to just fill in the papers and let you come back here, you know. You could be gone for good."

Crowley furrows his brow. "Angel, nothing is going to happen. It's not like I need to surface for air. And it's the British coast; I'm not going to be attacked by great whites. Even if I were, I can... you know... do magic." He threads his long slender fingers through Aziraphale's shorter ones. He's genuinely trying to be comforting, which makes Aziraphale feel awful. "All right, in theory I suppose something could possibly go wrong, but that's true of every situation. Do you really want to spend eternity wrapped up in cotton wool?"

"No", Aziraphale admits. "I suppose I don't."

Crowley rubs slow circles into Aziraphale's palms with his thumbs. "But you don't feel any better? Aziraphale, really. What's wrong with swimming?"

He can't keep anything from Crowley. "It's too close."

"Too close?" 

Aziraphale hangs his head. "To Heaven. It feels too close."

That's what terrifies him, really. It's the way gravity is different under water. It's how sounds are both amplified and muffled. The sense of stillness, the alteration of the way light works, the loss of direction, the feeling of an endless void. The ocean, way out in the depths, reminds Aziraphale too much of Heaven, and he's not certain he can stand the idea of Crowley being submerged in it.

A flicker of fear dances across Crowley's features. "And you... miss that too much?"

"No!" Aziraphale leans forward. "Crowley, you weren't there, after I discorporated. They wanted me to be a part of all that, forever, and you were never ever going to be there with me." He shudders, remembering how alone that had made him feel. "I don't _miss_ that. I couldn't. I don't even like to remember it, but when you're out there it's all that I can think about."

There is a loaded pause as Crowley digests this. Then he stands. "Come with me."

Aziraphale objects on instinct. "Crowley, really-"

"We won't go any deeper in than you like", Crowley promises. "Just trust me."

Crowley strips off his clothes on his way to the shore. Even in his state of trepidation, Aziraphale can't help but admire the long sleek lines of him. He keeps his own clothes on until the last possible moment, but finally surrenders when Crowley points out that the saltwater would ruin Aziraphale's prized suit once and for all. Then he stands naked on the pebbled beach, shivering and feeling ridiculous.

Crowley takes his hand and a pleasant warmth spreads from his body into Aziraphale's. "Just a little wade, angel. You've done it a million times. Nothing to be nervous about."

The slope of the ocean floor is gradual and it's a long walk before the water rises from their ankles to their chests and then over their shoulders. But then Aziraphale is standing on the balls of his feet as the waves lap at his chin, and he's not sure if he can go any further.

And then Crowley turns and folds him into a tight embrace. His arms cross against Aziraphale's back as he pulls the angel flush against him. Aziraphale can feel Crowley pressed hard against every inch of him; the demon's hair, wet from the lapping waves, brushes against his cheeks.

"I've got you, love." Crowley whispers the words against Aziraphale's cheek. "I'm right here with you, and I'm never leaving you. Nothing could tear me away. You need to believe that."

Tears sting at Aziraphale's eyes. He kisses Crowley once, hard, and then they plunge forward into the depths together.


	5. Chapter 5

Ultimately, one of the things Crowley likes best about their life together is that it isn't perfect.

This first occurs to him on an otherwise fairly unremarkable Wednesday morning. He's doing his best to lure Aziraphale back into the bedroom, hoping for a little repeat of the night before and Aziraphale's particularly extraordinary _effort_. But the angel is faffing about with the morning papers, talking about a book fair in the neighbouring town and how they should drive over there and make a day of it. And Crowley rolls his eyes and indulges in a bit of resentment, thinking that a perfect lover would simply crawl back into bed with him. It's not until a couple of hours later that he realises such capitulation would mean being denied the pleasure of pulling over on a lonely stretch of road and refusing to drive one metre more unless he's permitted to suck Aziraphale off first. And what a loss that would be.

Every day, the idea is reinforced. They bicker with each other, of course. It's their pattern. They disagree over where to get dinner, what colour to paint the kitchen, the best vegetables to plant in the gardens and exactly which one of them is being the most unreasonable at any given time. And then Crowley will look at Aziraphale, see the incredibly familiar lines and planes of his beloved face, and think that it's all just marvelous and that he wouldn't change a single thing about it.

If things were perfect, Aziraphale wouldn't spoil Crowley's plants to the point where they felt it was safe to let a few leaves here and there curl and wither. He wouldn't hang "delightfully clever" pine tree-shaped air-fresheners from the mirror of the Bentley, entirely eradicating the rich leather scent Crowley has worked so hard to preserve. He wouldn't leave huge heaps of books lying around the place in spite of having a bloody purpose-built _library_ , to the point where Crowley has just opted to give up and use the stacks as furniture. Nor would he get cross when the top volume of one book-pile-turned-end table gets a little insignificant stain from Crowley's highball glass.

And Crowley would mourn every single one of those losses.

There are surprising pleasures, he has learned, in apologies - both giving and receiving them. To be forgiven, after sixty centuries of being told he is unforgivable, is a shocking relief. It doesn't especially matter that Aziraphale more routinely forgives him for leaving his shoes the middle of the room than he does for falling from grace; the little easing of guilt is still glorious. And when he magnanimously absolves Aziraphale for failing to rinse the dishes after a midnight snack even though they've attracted ants, it warms his heart a bit that this being that he adores so much values his forgiveness to the point that recieving it makes him truly happy. A perfect partner would just wash the dishes the night before, and then the demon would never get to see Aziraphale smile as Crowley miracles the ants outside and tells him not to worry about it - no big deal, really.

Crowley's pale and insubstantial theoretical perfect lover would, of course, anticipate his desires in bed. He wouldn't squeak adorably in surprise when the demon holds up a silk scarf and suggested that tying each other up might be a bit of fun. And so Crowley would never get to see the adorable shade of pink that Aziraphale flushes when the knots tighten, or hear his cries of shocked pleasure when it turns out that Crowley is - of course - entirely correct.

Crowley knows how fragile perfection can be. One simple thing - a whispered suggestion, a bite of fruit - can make perfection crumple into the dust. If what he shared with Aziraphale was perfect he would live in constant terror of losing it. But as it is, when he turns off his lamp to sleep and the one on Aziraphale's side of the bed is still burning brightly - because the stubborn creature still refuses to try so much as a catnap - Crowley feels secure. He sleeps more easily this way, despite the extra light.

And perhaps most importantly, Crowley fully understands how hollow perfection can be when you have it. He remembers Aziraphale wincing at the thought of a perfect eternity, surrounded by angels with clean minds and unblemished faith. An endless age of pure perfection had stretched out in front of him, and Aziraphale had curled his lip at it like it was a fat-free non-dairy ice-cream or some other pale imitation of actual joy.

And Crowley had understood him completely. Crowley himself had been pure once. Unsullied, the very ideal of an angel. And he'd chafed and strained and ached - wanting to know things, wanting to understand more, not content with knowing that everything was as it should be in that damned ineffable plan and his own damned ineffable role in it. He hadn't meant to fall, that was true, but he didn't regret it either. Not with his freedom, his angel in his arms and the way things had finally turned out.

Perfection had proved itself to be ultimately unsatisfactory. But he and Aziraphale have found their satisfaction together.


End file.
